Saturday, August 31st, 2022

Gewiss Stadium, Bergamo

66th–90th Minute

66'–70'

The possession stat on the big screen climbed to seventy-nine percent as Atalanta settled into a rhythm that felt less like football and more like possession drill, the Demien–De Roon–Koopmeiners triangle locked into a pattern that Lecce couldn't break.

One touch sideways from Demien to De Roon.

De Roon back to Koopmeiners.

Koopmeiners forward again to Demien.

Demien diagonal to Hateboer.

Hateboer back inside to De Roon.

Eight touches in twelve seconds, the ball never staying still, never giving Lecce's exhausted midfield a chance to close the space, and every hoof upfield from their defenders dropped straight back to black-and-blue feet because Tolói and Demiral were winning every aerial duel without breaking sweat.

Hjulmand's passes went astray under constant pressure, his legs too heavy to follow Demien's movement anymore, and Baschirotto had abandoned any pretense of pressing, hoofing long clearances to nobody as his team sank deeper and deeper into their own half.

The Curva Nord sensed the kill coming, drums establishing a steady rhythm that drove the tempo forward, and nineteen thousand voices grew louder with each passing minute because this wasn't just a win anymore, this was domination.

69th Minute

The fourth official raised his board near the touchline, the number nine illuminated in red, and Højlund jogged off to warm applause from the home crowd, his job done after sixty-nine minutes of holding up play and dragging defenders around the pitch.

Muriel entered, the Colombian striker bouncing on his toes as he crossed the white line, fresh legs against exhausted defenders, and Gasperini's instruction was simple as he passed: "Run at them. They're finished."

71st Minute

Demien collected the ball deep in his own half, forty-five yards from Lecce's goal, and his eyes scanned forward as Muriel—fresh on for Højlund five minutes earlier—made a diagonal run across Gallo's blindside.

The pass came off Demien's right boot with perfect weight, a looping diagonal that hung in the air for three seconds before dropping into Muriel's path on the left channel, and the Colombian striker's first touch cushioned it dead against his chest as Gallo scrambled to recover.

Muriel's second touch pushed the ball forward, his pace taking him past the recovering defender, and he cut inside toward the penalty area as Baschirotto slid across to cover.

The low drive came from eighteen yards, struck clean with his right foot, curling toward the far bottom corner, and Falcone dove desperately, his fingertips just reaching the ball to tip it wide for a corner.

"Muriel! Great save from Falcone!" Caressa's voice carried excitement. "The Colombian almost made it four immediately, what a ball from Walter to start that attack!"

The corner came to nothing, Baschirotto's header clearing it away, but the pattern was clear: Lecce were hanging on by their fingernails while Atalanta probed for the knockout blow.

75th Minute

Gasperini's voice cut across the touchline as the fourth official raised his board, and Koopmeiners jogged off to warm applause from the home crowd, his job done after seventy-five minutes of controlling midfield.

Scalvini entered, the young defender slotting into the midfield triangle without missing a beat, and within thirty seconds the pattern reformed—Demien to De Roon to Scalvini to Demien—the rhythm unchanged despite fresh legs.

The Curva Nord appreciated the seamless transition, their chant growing louder: "Ale' Atalanta ale', ale' Atalanta ale'!"

77th Minute

The ball broke loose near the right touchline after Blin's weak clearance, bouncing twice before Demien arrived first, his acceleration sharp as he collected it thirty yards from goal with space opening ahead.

Hjulmand recognized the danger immediately and charged forward, his yellow card from earlier weighing on his mind but his legs too gassed to care, and he lunged desperately as Demien approached the channel between midfield and defense.

Demien's shoulder dropped left.

The La Croqueta Chain trait activated instinctively as his right foot dragged the ball across his body, and Hjulmand bought the fake completely, his momentum carrying him left while Demien's body shifted right, the ball rolling smoothly between the Dane's planted feet.

Hjulmand went to the floor, his legs tangling as he tried to change direction, and Demien accelerated into the channel with three yards of clear grass ahead, his eyes already scanning as he approached the penalty area.

Three Lecce defenders scrambled across to cover, but Muriel had timed his run perfectly, peeling away from Baschirotto's marking to find space between center-back and left-back, and the passing lane opened for half a second.

The Özil Eye-of-the-Needle trait lit up Demien's vision, showing the exact thread between Gendrey's outstretched leg and Baschirotto's diving body, and his right foot delivered the pass with surgical precision.

The ball rolled through the gap, weighted perfectly, and Muriel was gone.

One-on-one with Falcone, the Colombian striker's first touch pushed it wide of the advancing goalkeeper, and his second touch came calm and composed, right-footed into the empty net as nineteen thousand people rose as one.

4-1.

Shoulder drop left, Hjulmand gone like smoke, space opened clean, the needle pass split three defenders like thread through silk, and Muriel was already celebrating before the ball crossed the line because that was the kind of assist that made strikers look like geniuses when really it was the midfielder who'd done all the work.

「Assist #3 registered」

The system delivered its line and vanished.

"Walter on the right! Sells Hjulmand completely!" Caressa's voice climbed with excitement. "Slides Muriel away... rounds the keeper... FOUR-ONE! Atalanta in cruise control now, and that's demolition from the hosts! Look at that skill, look at that pass—the kid is running the show!"

"Fantastico!" the co-commentator shouted. "La Croqueta, then the pass through three defenders—this is exhibition football now! Lecce have no answers, Walter is playing at a different level!"

The Curva Nord unleashed everything they had left, the chant sharp and rhythmic as it echoed from end to end, nineteen thousand voices clapping in unison:

"DEA! DEA! DEA!"

CLAP-CLAP-CLAP

"DEA! DEA! DEA!"

The rhythm established itself, drums thundering beneath the voices, and then the stadium began jumping as one, the concrete stands shaking as the celebration turned into a bouncing mass of black and blue while the four hundred Lecce fans in the away section sank lower in their seats, silent and defeated.

81st–87th Minute

Lecce were shell-shocked now, ten men behind the ball but still chasing ghosts as Atalanta's possession climbed to eighty-two percent, and Gasperini made his final changes with the match long decided.

Eighty-third minute: Boga entered for Lookman, fresh legs to toy with Lecce's exhausted defense.

Eighty-fifth minute: Pasalic prepared on the touchline, warming up for his introduction.

The crowd sensed what was coming, and when the fourth official raised his board in the eighty-seventh minute showing number eight coming off, two-thirds of the Gewiss Stadium rose to their feet.

Gasperini beckoned from the touchline, and Demien jogged over slowly, his ninety minutes done, and the applause started from the Curva Nord before spreading like a wave across every section of the stadium.

Loud, warm, building in volume as he approached the touchline, and scarves dipped then raised in appreciation for a performance that had turned a difficult home match into a demolition.

Demien lifted one hand flat to the stands—simple acknowledgment, no fist-pump, no theatrics—then clapped Pasalic as the midfielder jogged past him onto the pitch, and the crowd's cheer for the substitution was louder than the applause for Demien's exit because that was Italian football, where respect was earned through performance and given without sentiment.

He walked straight to the bench, grabbed a jacket, and sat while the final minutes played out in front of him, Boga and Pasalic knocking the ball about with the ease of training ground possession drills.

Four minutes of added time appeared on the board.

Lecce had nothing left.

The referee checked his watch at ninety-four minutes and seventeen seconds, raised the whistle to his lips, and blew three sharp blasts.

TWEEEEET. TWEEEEET. TWEEEEET.

4-1.

Final.

Full-Time –

The panel materialized as Demien stood from the bench, the stats appearing in clean white text against the blue interface:

「MATCH COMPLETE」

「90 minutes played」

「1 goal | 3 assists」

「92% pass accuracy (final third: 89%)」

「8/10 duels won」

「4 key passes | 3 chances created」

「MISSION: OWN THE HOUSE – COMPLETED」

「All objectives achieved」

「200 TP | 100 MP secured」

「Current Balance: 245 TP | 0 SP | 116 MP」

The system vanished without ceremony, its job done, and Demien walked toward the tunnel as his teammates celebrated on the pitch, high-fiving and embracing while the Curva Nord sang their appreciation.

Locker Room

The dressing room buzzed with energy as players filtered in, sweat-soaked shirts peeled off, water bottles emptied, voices overlapping in Italian and English as the win settled into their bones.

Demien sat in front of his locker, unlacing his boots slowly while his legs throbbed with the pleasant ache of ninety minutes well spent, and around him the celebration continued—Lookman laughing with Muriel, De Roon clapping Tolói on the back, Hateboer sprawled on the floor stretching his hamstrings.

The door opened and Gasperini entered, and the room quieted immediately as twenty-two bodies turned toward their manager.

"Good," Gasperini said, his voice carrying authority without volume. "That's the standard. Lecce came here to sit deep and frustrate us, and we broke them down systematically. Seventy-nine percent possession, four goals, clean performance."

His eyes moved across the room, landing briefly on different players.

"Lookman, Malinovskyi—good movement in the channels. Højlund, Muriel—clinical finishing when it mattered. De Roon, Koopmeiners—midfield control was excellent. Defense stayed organized even when they countered."

Then his gaze found Demien, and he nodded once, sharp and deliberate.

"Walter. Complete performance. Goal, three assists, ran the midfield all ninety minutes. That's what I want to see every week."

Demien met his eyes and nodded back, and the first real smile of the day cracked his face—small, earned, genuine.

The room erupted in applause and shouts, teammates slapping his shoulders as Gasperini turned and walked back out to handle post-match interviews, leaving the celebration to continue without him.

Demien stood and walked to the showers, and as he passed his kit bag on the bench, his phone vibrated hard inside, the screen lighting up visible through the fabric.

He paused for half a second, then kept walking toward the showers.

Later.

Whatever it was could wait until he'd washed off ninety minutes of domination.

A/N

Goodnight

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